


Júdica Me, Deus

by raphae11e



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: (because of the priapus thing), Alternate Universe - Religious, Aphrodisiacs, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Pagan Gods, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Religious Guilt, Wet Dream, markus has got some real priapus vibes going on here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-27 05:19:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15678825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raphae11e/pseuds/raphae11e
Summary: Father Simon can resist everything except temptation.(An AU in which Simon is a priest, and Markus is the pagan god that plagues his dreams.)





	Júdica Me, Deus

**Author's Note:**

> FINALLY finished this! I've had this fic in my "works in progress" for like, a month now, but I finally got around to it. This was totally inspired by [THIS lovely fanart right here](https://chitterlingsandyellow.tumblr.com/post/175062961883/a-new-branch-of-the-church-au-markus-is-a-pagan) by tumblr user chitterlingsandyellow! I've always been a sucker for religious imagery, especially in porn, so I was totally taken by this idea.
> 
> Hope you all enjoy! ♡

_Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil._

A chill is beginning to spread through Simon’s legs from the marble floor, cold and hard and unforgiving, but still he remains kneeling. _There is no penance without pain,_ he reminds himself, just as he has a thousand times before. _Pain shows humility, and remorse, and a desire to leave sin behind._

Unfortunately, the words ring as hollow in his mind as they would if he’d said them to the cavernous ceiling above.

Simon frowns, eyes still tightly shut. His hands stay clasped in prayer against his chest. Why is he _like_ this? What has changed in him that such thoughts no longer hold the meaning they should?

In the back of his mind, he knows. But admitting to the problem would bring it to the forefront once more, and then he’d be distracted, and then… then, the cycle would begin anew.

 _God,_ he prays, _let this temptation pass me by._

For as long as he can remember, Simon has been particularly sensitive to otherworldly things.  No two are the same, and a good many of them seem to view him with ambivalence even as they make fear race down his spine. Many of them are divine, and surely all of them supernatural, with their many eyes and hands and fire that licks their bodies like hungry tongues. They are… beautiful, really. Beautiful and terrifying.

As a child, it had been a relatively harmless skill; monsters under the bed, things for his parents to tease him about, nothing more. But now… now, he feels that he is being tested. And if this _is_ a test, he cannot pass it alone, because he’s afraid that he’s becoming too...

 _Curious?_ his mind supplies. _Fascinated? Enamored?_

With a quiet noise of frustration, Simon finally allows his eyes to open. The church around him is dark and silent under the blanket of night. Above him, he feels the eyes of countless statues boring into him, quietly judging.

As always, his thoughts turn where they shouldn’t, and he finds it impossible to focus. His only option for respite now is sleep.

Simon dusts off his cassock as he stands and turns on his heel, making for the priest’s quarters. All the way, he feels the shadows begin to close in as the final candle on the altar gutters out.

 

As he sleeps, he begins to dream.

He’s back in the church, kneeling at the altar with hands folded, but he feels at peace. Even the darkness no longer unnerves him; instead, the current under his skin is one of excitement, not unease. The very air he breathes is seems expectant.

The curtains behind the altar part to reveal a man.

Simon feels the excitement in the pit of his stomach build to a fever pitch. _This_ is who he’d been waiting for. This man, who surely must be a deity with the way his dark skin glows and his mismatched gaze sets Simon alight with awe and fear. This man, robed in a tunic of gold, who approaches on silent feet until he towers over Simon with all the dignity and majesty of an ancient star.

“Father,” the beautiful apparition says. The way he draws out the priestly title sounds teasing and makes Simon’s mouth water.

“I’m yours,” he replies without hesitation.

The man smiles, gentle and cruel all at once. One of his hands grips Simon by the jaw, and he bends at the waist until their lips meet in an open-mouthed kiss.

 

Simon awakens with a gasping breath, eyes flying open. He’s tangled up in his sheets, limbs sprawled in haphazard fashion, like he’d been in the throes of some fever as he dreamed. His cock is hard and leaking against his thigh. As soon as he’s awake enough to feel ashamed, what meager blood is left in his upper body flows to his face, staining his cheeks a brilliant red. His hands come up to press against his eyes as his head aches with the beginnings of a migraine.

Miserably, he thinks, _again?_ For how long will he have to endure this, when every night he’s tormented by the touch of mouths and hands against his heated skin?

Content as he is to wallow in silence, something feels… off. More so than it usually does when he wakes in the middle of the night. The air is thick in his throat when he swallows, and has that electric quality he’s come to associate with one of his dreams. Driven by his curiosity, Simon finally lifts his hands from his face and opens his eyes once more.

Standing above him is the man from his dream-- the man from all of the dreams he’s had for months now. He is just as blinding and beautiful as ever.

Gooseflesh breaks out along Simon’s arms as their eyes meet, and suddenly he can’t _breathe._  He practically bolts up in bed in his haste to escape the apparition’s seemingly magnetic pull. “Wh-What--”

“Father,” the man says.

At the low rumble of that voice, Simon’s blood runs cold, then almost painfully hot. He has to fight to keep his thighs from parting of their own accord. “Who are you?” he asks.

His tormentor inclines his head, full lips twitching upwards in a smile. Those eyes, one green and one blue, sweep over the length of Simon’s body like a physical touch. “I am called different things by different people,” he says. “You may call me Markus.”

 _Markus._ After Mars, the Roman god of war and masculinity and virility. Simon swallows around the sudden dryness in his mouth. “What… What do you want?”

“You _interest_ me.” That hardly seems strong enough a word, though, with the way Markus’s gaze burns as he says it. “You struggle much with your desires. I must admit that I am drawn to you because of them.”

God help him, this really _is_ a test, isn’t it? Simon bites his lip and tries to steel himself. It isn’t easy-- not with those eyes still turned his way, nor with the insistent throbbing between his thighs. The sheets are sticky with sweat beneath him, and he nearly slips as he braces his palms against the mattress and leans back.

“If you’re here to tempt me,” he says, “I won’t give in so easily.”

The threat sounds woefully weak, even to his own ears. It only serves to make Markus’s smile widen. “I did not come here to _trick_ you, priest,” he replies, voice rippling with amusement, “and I do not speak in riddles. When I say that you interest me…” He steps closer, knees brushing the foot of the bed. “… I mean just that, and nothing more.”

Simon opens his mouth to protest yet again-- but is rendered speechless as Markus reaches for the fastening of his golden robes. The fabric slips liquid-like to the floor and bares the god’s body in full. He’s sculpted of clay, muscles shifting restlessly beneath warm skin. Simon can’t stop his eyes from drinking everything in. No detail goes unnoticed, from the smattering of freckles that litter his frame to the dusting of hair that travels from his navel downwards.

A wave of heat threatens to consume Simon as his gaze stops between Markus’s thighs. The cock there stands at half-mast and is already drooling precome onto the sheets. It’s thick, and uncut, and God, how Simon _wants._

“Please,” he says, throat tight around the word, “please, don’t.”

Two-toned eyes glitter in the room’s muted light. It’s a long moment before Markus responds. “You’re beautiful like this,” he drawls.

Simon’s hands tremble, fist themselves in the bedspread, and he has to stifle a sob. His heart is beating rabbit-fast against his ribcage and he’s so lightheaded that he can barely think. It’s too much, _too much,_ being in the presence of an entity so disarmingly, overwhelmingly beautiful. He squeezes his eyes shut in a desperate attempt to remain calm.

A brief, blissful moment of silence. Then: _“Simon.”_

The priest whimpers as his name leaves those lips for the first time. He feels his own cock flex against his thigh in response, oozing against fevered skin, but by some small mercy he manages to keep still.

Beneath him, he feels the mattress dip with added weight. “I want to help you,” purrs this pagan god in his bed. “You have been so good to me these past nights. A favor is long overdue.”

Markus is soon close enough for Simon to feel his every breath. The proximity makes his entire body tense further, and further, and…

“ _Please,_ Simon.”

Once a pair of lips brush against his own, all too quickly he is lost.

Kissing Markus is like taking fire into his mouth. He nurses it on his tongue, lets it burn his delicate insides until he feels cleansed by the heat of it, and moans as their teeth clack together in their urgency. Simon’s back meets the bed with a sharp exhale as he’s overpowered and pressed into the sheets, underwear already being tugged down and off his body. His legs spread as Markus settles between them. There are hands at his chest, at his hips, at his thighs. The touches are so quick that they feel near simultaneous; suddenly, Simon is afraid to look at the man he has given himself over to.

When he finally works up the courage, his eyes flutter open to the sight of odd irises swallowed by lust-dark pupils.

“Perfect,” Markus growls, just as his broad palm slips below Simon’s waist and _presses._

That brief contact alone sends Simon convulsing. His eyes nearly roll back in his head when fingers wrap nimbly around his cock and stroke him from root to tip, over and over. He’s being scalded by the skin against his own and it causes pleasure to bloom bright on the backs of his eyelids. Somewhere above him, he thinks he hears Markus laugh.

Then, abruptly, the overwhelming sensation ceases. The world fades in again, starting at the corners; Simon has to blink away tears to properly see anything. Vaguely, he realizes that spend has spilled hot and thick over his heaving belly and is dripping onto the sheets.

Barely more than a touch, and he’s already come undone. Simon’s tongue is gummy in his mouth as he swallows.

“Too much, I think,” says Markus. He still sounds on the verge of laughter, but the words aren’t unkind. His fingers release their grip on Simon and move up his body. They press against Simon’s already parted lips, and greedily, unthinkingly, he takes them in. The taste of his own slick there makes him groan.

“Better?” Simon nods, the motion jerky in its eagerness. His cock is still hard, he notes, and is already leaking again at the prospect of more pleasure. If he were in his right mind, he’d be embarrassed by how wanton he’s become. As things are though, his enthusiasm makes Markus smile, looking almost proud, and that is enough to soothe the ache in his heart.

The hand at his mouth pulls away, the pads of its fingers dragging over his tongue and the grooves of his molars. Even _that_ touch dances on the knife’s edge of pain. It leaves Simon raw and panting and he leans forward, seeking more.

Markus makes a tutting noise. “Patience, Father,” he says. His eyes glitter as he presses a palm against Simon’s chest and forces him back down. All he can do is watch as the man’s spit-slicked fingers slip between his legs to rub over his clenching hole.

 _“God,”_ Simon chokes out, head tilting back, body writhing, eyes rolling again in their sockets.

“Yes,” Markus replies simply. It’s amazing how much self-satisfaction he’s capable of pouring into that single word.

Simon can feel his body wanting to open, fluttering as it’s teased, but… he _can’t._ At the back of his mind, somewhere deep in his hindbrain, there’s still part of him that fears the near-painful pleasure. Even as his eyes meet Markus’s and the hunger he sees there makes him sob, he can’t force himself to loosen.

There’s the briefest press of a hand against his cock, lightning-quick in its intensity. It’s _just_ enough that it distracts him from his internal struggle. Markus then soothes that same hand over his inner thigh. Voice soft yet commanding, he says, “ _Relax,”_ and miraculously, Simon’s muscles obey. Mere seconds later, he feels three digits sliding into him all the way to the knuckle, curling expertly, stroking his insides with calloused fingertips.

That familiar searing light appears like starbursts in front of his eyes. Markus’s face is obscured by them, but not before Simon catches a glimpse of perfect lips parting, eyes going hooded as they focus on the way fingers disappear into Simon’s body. The priest moans, a broken sound, overwhelmed with the knowledge that he has such an effect on a being so omnipotent. He feels _powerful,_ even as he feels entirely powerless.

As Simon begins bucking up into each stroke, his hips brush against hot and throbbing flesh. His skin comes away wet and tacky; something clicks in the back of his mind, and he breathes, _“Please.”_ He says, “I’m _yours.”_

Against him, the whole line of Markus’s body goes tense with a sharp moan. Simon blinks and forces his eyes to focus. The man is watching him with something akin to shock, warring with lingering lust. Had he not expected such immediate devotion, aware as he is of his beauty?

Simon blinks again, then a third time. He must still be disoriented, because he is certain that mere moments ago, Markus’s eyes hadn’t been so numerous, nor had his mouth seemed so full of _teeth_. When his vision flickers again, though, the sight vanishes just as quickly as it had appeared.

The probing fingers inside him freeze. Simon whines pitifully at the loss, squirms against them, but then Markus _growls._ “You do not know what you promise.” Despite the warning, he’s quick to pull his hand away in favor of gripping Simon’s thighs, forcing them to splay even wider, enough that his muscles burn from the stretch.

Simon fists his hands in the sheets. “I-I do,” he insists, albeit shakily. He dares a quick glance down as their bodies shift to adjust to the new position. The head of Markus’s cock presses teasingly against his hole, and blood bursts on his tongue as he bites down on a moan.

“D-Don’t make me repeat myself,” he pleads.

Skin presses against skin as Markus leans forward to capture his lips in a bruising kiss. “Oh, Simon,” he says, agonizingly tender, “true consecration cannot be forced.”

Markus slides into him without warning, in one smooth, practiced motion. The very first thrust buries him all the way to the hilt, and it’s enough to make Simon _scream._ He feels the pleasure in his gut peak a second time; more come stripes his stomach and thighs. Simon only has a moment to spare for the shame that bubbles up inside him, because when Markus begins to move, his mind goes blissfully blank.

Every inch of the deity’s body is fever-hot, like the light of the sun simmers underneath his skin, so with that unbearable heat now suddenly inside him, Simon feels like he’s aflame. He thinks of saints with hearts suffused in burning ecstasy, of martyrs with skin peeling away as fire laps at their bones. He _understands._

He isn’t sure what he had expected upon agreeing to this, but it is far more intoxicating and terrifying than he ever could have imagined.

Of its own accord, one of his legs hikes itself over Markus’s slim hips, heel digging into the small of his back. Sweat and the mess of his previous orgasms make every thrust near frictionless. He feels like he’s moving against something molten, the weight of the body above him suffocating, every breath wheezing out of his lungs.

As Markus presses still closer, Simon uses the last of his strength to crane his neck upwards. Teeth and tongue meet tanned skin; it scalds him, makes him flinch, but stubbornly he bites down until he feels Markus’s flesh give ever so slightly. He’s rewarded with a snarl of pleasure against his shoulder. The hands grasping his hips clench hard enough to bruise.

“You are _incredible,_ Simon. You are _perfect.”_ There’s a lilt to Markus’s words now, like his voice is unraveling and fraying as he speaks, mouth curling around the syllables. “You are _mine.”_

Simon’s mind is sent reeling as he tries to take in every conflicting and cacophonous sensation. He wants to echo the words, wants to tell Markus _yes, yes, I am,_ but all he manages is a brief stutter before the sentence gives way to another moan.

After several long moments of fighting to make his mind and mouth cooperate, Simon gasps out, _“Markus.”_

Abruptly, the body against and inside him pulls away. He’s left febrile and shaking and struggling to process the sudden loss. “Wh-What--” Simon starts to say-- but his question is already being answered as two hands grip him at thigh and bicep and flip him over effortlessly.

One hand slides to rest between his shoulder blades, pinning him to the bed. The other pulls him up by his hip so that he’s braced, shaking, on his knees. Then the burning pressure inside him returns as Markus’s cock splits him open a second time.

“F- _Fuck,_ ahn, M-Markus--” Simon’s hands scrabble for purchase against the bed. The very marrow of his bones seems to melt away, Markus filling him so completely that he feels like he's choking on it.

Nails rake their way down the length of his spine, and a set of too-sharp teeth sink themselves into the meat of his shoulder, and he _wails._ The pain makes tears spring to his eyes even as his cock jumps against his belly. He _wants_ this, he realizes. It becomes a mantra that fills his head: _I want, I want, I want._

“I know,” Markus breathes against the delicate skin of his exposed nape. It’s all the warning he gets before the thrusts begin anew, merciless, forcing his back to arch and his toes to curl into the sheets.

White hot pleasure spirals down the length of his spine. He’s blinded to all else, literally and figuratively, until the thorny want coiling deep in his belly becomes so raw that it’s nearly unbearable. He chokes out another sob; when he tries to draw his next breath, his lungs refuse to cooperate.

Panic floods him and builds in tandem with his arousal. Weakly, he tries to push Markus away, but instead he feels his hands pull the man closer, and he can’t-- he’s going to--

Every muscle in his body locks at once, and his vision goes so white that Simon is _sure_ he has gone blind. Vaguely he feels his body collapse against the sheets, shuddering in the aftershocks of his climax, open-mouthed and panting against his pillow. Markus is still moving against him, cock abrading Simon’s raw nerves. He whimpers at the sting of it and feels two broad palms slide up his sides in a soothing gesture.

 _“Perfect,_ Simon,” Markus says on an exhale. The words saturate his heart and belly in warmth, the praise tempting enough that Simon uses the last of his strength to roll back into the cradle of Markus’s hips. And just like that, the god stills against him with a wordless moan.

Simon shudders, the whole line of his body going pliant as he’s filled. It feels like the purest form of bliss-- like becoming complete. When he blinks, he realizes his eyes have filled with hot tears, and the motion sends them spilling down his cheeks. _“Markus,”_ he breathes.

The heated skin against his own shifts, and two arms slide under his chest to pull him upright. “I’m here,” comes the response. Markus’s lips are against his ear, and those hands are now rubbing slow, gentle circles over his hips and belly.

Simon _sobs._ He turns his head to press his face into the crook of Markus’s neck. “I-I, I don’t--” he tries, “I can’t--”

“I know,” Markus consoles him, and then again, “I’m here.”

They press so close together that they’re breathing each other’s air. Every inch of Simon feels boneless, wrung out, pent up emotion seeping out of him under the careful guidance of Markus’s fingers and lips against his skin. Eventually he heaves a great, shuddering sigh, and turns to look into those mismatched eyes once more.

The god smiles, dazzling even in the afterglow. “You look better,” he says.

“Better?”

“Yes. Before, I said that you were beautiful-- but you were also struggling. You doubt your self-worth. It eats away at you.” One of Simon’s hands is cradled in a gentle grip, and full lips brush tenderly against his wrist. “Now,” Markus says, “you are nothing _but_ beautiful. You are more whole.”

Tears threaten to fill his vision again, so Simon looks away; gazing at this man for too long is like looking into the sun. “You flatter me,” he murmurs.

“Only because you deserve to be flattered,” Markus replies. Warmth curls around the words, and Simon thinks that he hears desire rekindled there, too. He holds his breath, still with anticipation-- but then the man is pulling away. Simon shivers as he’s left empty, cool air hitting his still-flushed skin. He turns to watch as Markus stands in one fluid motion. The muscles of his back are coated in a sheen of sweat and shining in the lowlight, and now Simon cannot look away.

Words spill from Simon’s lips before be can stop himself. “Please,” he says. “Please stay.” He hates how _needy_ it sounds. Shame threatens to choke him, and he fists his hands in the sheets, biting his lip to stifle more mindless petitions.

Markus, however, doesn’t seem fazed. In fact, when he turns to face the priest still kneeling on the disheveled bed, his expression is tender, his eyes warm. “I won’t stray far,” he promises. He leans forward to stroke a hand through Simon’s tousled hair.

Pressing a gentle kiss to Simon’s forehead, then each fluttering eyelid, before hovering just above his lips, Markus says, “If you need me, simply pray. I will come.”

Moments later he is gone. Simon is left with only the heat that coils endlessly in his belly and the phantom brush of lips against his own. Whether it’s from shame or some far sweeter emotion, he cannot tell, but he does know one thing: he is entirely, hopelessly, utterly lost.


End file.
